


Summer Novela

by littleramblings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleramblings/pseuds/littleramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone dreams of having that perfect summer romance. Everyone but him. He doesn’t believe in love, not after watching his parents marriage crumble before his eyes. Of course, by the time you realize that you’re in danger of falling, it’s too late to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted over at my tumblr (which, if anybody is interested, is ForeverSecretlyYours)

It’s when he hears Jay crying herself to sleep that he decides he can’t stay, not for the entire summer. And maybe it’s a selfish thing to do, packing a suitcase in the middle of the night while browsing the internet for cheap holiday deals, but he’s got a couple hundred quid in the bank that he’s supposed to be saving for university and enough petrol in his car to get him to the airport if he drives at a reasonable pace, so to be quite honest, he doesn’t care.

 

It’s not fair that his parents’ argument had gone this far. It’s not fair that, because of them, Lottie spends half her time at Martin’s simply so she doesn’t have to hear them shouting at each other. It’s not fair that Daisy and Phoebe are scared to go to sleep _(“because what if daddy has left by the time we wake up in the morning?”)_ and that Felicite’s forced to step into the paternal role, reading them bedtime stories in order to calm them down.

 

It’s not fair that Jay and Mark have decided to split.

 

So he packs. Jeans, shorts, trousers, t-shirts, shirts, and swimming trunks, stuffing a few flip-flops and toms in there too, deliberating for only a few seconds before adding a few sets of braces because why the hell not?

 

After clicking away at his laptop for what seems like forever, but couldn’t be more than twenty minutes, he finally finds something that, okay, isn’t too shabby looking. (at least it’s not an upstairs room at a brothel that’s free as long as you ‘earn your keep’. Which, no thank you.) It’s a villa, a family villa and for a moment, Louis considers crossing off the tab because he  _really_  doesn’t want to be somewhere where he’s forced to observe something he’s lost. Or, is currently loosing. But for some reason he doesn’t. Maybe it’s the fact that the pictures make it look sort of  _homey_. There’s a garden gnome on the front step and a pool that could probably fit about fifty people in it around the back. Plus it’s only £60 a week, all expenses paid, which makes Louis think that it might not be so bad after all.

 

And, once he’s made up his mind, it doesn’t take Louis long to book a placement, a flight, and download a map. Once he’s checked and double checked that he’s done everything necessary, he logs off and debates for a minute or two whether or not to take his laptop with him. He decides on not, because what’s the point on going on holiday if he’s not really getting away from anything?

 

Facebook can do without him for a few weeks.

 

There’s a creek on the stairs, causing Louis to freeze. It’s not that he’s embarrassed over the thought of being caught getting ready to leave for the summer at 1:15am, more that he just doesn’t have the energy to explain  _why_  right now.

 

The following seconds are spent in silence as Louis waits with baited breath, praying that he hasn’t woken anybody up. The silence stretches on and, when a minute has passed, he realises with an embarrassed and breathless laugh that the creaking stair was just this old house being creepy.

 

The thing is, this isn’t the first time Louis’ snuck out of the house when everybody else is asleep. He’s rebelled enough in his teenage years to know to skip the third step down because it’s far from silent, and he knows not to touch the handrail because it’s been polished so much that it’ll squeak ridiculously the minute his palms begin to sweat. This is, however, the first time he’s snuck out with a suitcase and no intention of being back before the sun rises. Which, okay; is sort of nerve-wracking.

 

When he finally, (fucking  _finally,)_  makes it to the hallway, he leaves his case by the front door and throws a jacket on, not caring if it even matches the pyjama bottoms and plain white t-shirt he’s still wearing (he’ll change on the plain, or even at the airport if he’s early enough) before tiptoeing into the kitchen, grabbing a pen and piece of paper before scrawling a quick message. He may be sneaking off in the night but that doesn’t mean he wants anybody to worry when morning comes.

 

( _Mum and Dad,_

 _I’m going on holiday. Or, by the time you’ve read this,_ gone  _on holiday._

_Need time to think away from everything. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay._

_I’ll text you when I get there but apart from that, if you don’t hear from me, don’t panic._

_Tell the girls I love them._

_Bye,  
Louis. X)_

 

* * *

 

It’s not that Harry’s a morning person, he’s just not  _not_ a morning person. But being woken up at 6am because his mum’s shuffling about in the linen closet (a room which, unfortunately, is adjacent to his.) is pushing it a little bit.

 

Pulling on a pair of boxers, ignoring the stuffy Spanish air, he shuffles onto the hallway, squinting at the light that’s a cruel juxtaposition to the darkness he had previously been wrapped in. “S’goin on?”

 

Anne jumps slightly, a smile creeping onto her face when she sees Harry leaning against the doorway, slouching and pigeon toed and looking like he could fall asleep then and there. It’s cute.

 

“Sorry love,” she whispers softly, (because after all, Gemma’s still asleep.) “But I need to make up the spare room. Turns out letting it out over the summer wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

 

The spare room is more like a vacant room at the other side of the house, well away from the others with only a bed, wardrobe, and bedside table in it. It’s closer to the pool than any other room in the Villa, and Harry had tried to claim it for himself when they had first bought the place, but apparently when you’re 13, staying somewhere that’s more than a three minute walk from your mother’s room isn’t allowed.

 

Now, at fifteen, he just can’t be bothered with the hassle of switching.

 

“He should be here by morning and if he’s anything like you when you travel, he’s going to want to crash for a few hours when he gets in.”

 

Harry nods, only vaguely listening to what he’s being told because hello, it’s 6:00am. But he  _does_ register that he’s a he. A  _he_ as in a guy. Someone who Harry may or may not be willing to check out whenever they’re swimming. He’s picturing someone tall, blonde with blue eyes that laugh as water droplets make their way down chiseled and well defined abs, a faint scattering of hair that leads from his belly button to just underneath the waistband of his swimming shorts, and-  _stop right there!_ Harry mentally scolds himself, shaking his head as he tries to clear it.

 

This was  _not_ the right time to be remembering that guy from the porno he may or may not have wanked off to earlier that evening.

 

“Are you okay, Harry dear? You seem a little… flushed. Are you coming down with something?” Anne asks, dropping the bedsheets she’s holding in order to place a hand over Harry’s forehead, a small frown creasing her own. “It doesn’t feel like you have a temperature, but-”

 

“I’m fine, mum. Just hot.” Harry lies, smiling brightly at his mum. “Did you need a hand with that?” he nods towards the linens at her feet, clean and crease-less.

 

She seems to buy it, (either that or she’s just too tired to argue with him over this. If he really is ill, she’ll know soon enough.) and nods twice, handing over the duvet as she picks up everything else, closing the closet door with her hip. “Thank you, Teddy Edward.” and Harry groans. He may be tired, but he’s not tired enough to overlook  _that_ particular nickname.

 

Really, will there ever be a time that she’ll stop using it?

 

The smile on her face tells him no, there probably wont be.

 

* * *

 

Louis catches the flight at 3:00am. By 4:30, he’s dead to the world, sleeping at an awkward angle with his chin tucked in to the neckline of his shirt and The Fray playing gently through his earphones.

 

He had allowed himself a brief moment of guilt, just before boarding the plane. He had thought that it wasn’t too late to turn back, to go home and pretend like everything hadn’t happened. He could cancel everything and crawl into bed, and nobody would be any the wiser. But, the thing is, he couldn’t.

 

He needs this. Needs the time away, needs new people and new air to breathe. He needs to be able to wake up in his own time and not to the sounds of Jay shouting down the phone, or the twins asking for their daddy, or Lottie sneaking in after spending the night out. He just needs so much but there’s nobody to  _give._ Not in Doncaster.

 

At approximately 6:00am (6:08am, if you wanted to be precise.) he wakes up. Granted, being woken up by somebody snoring isn’t the best wake up call, but when you realise that you’ve woken  _yourself_ up snoring, things get a little embarrassing. Luckily the only other people awake are the staff and a few middle aged people in suits who, fortunately, are too polite to even glare at him. (That, or they really just don’t care. Which, okay, Louis will go for either of those options.)

 

According to a hostess (who’s name tag spells out  _Cher,_ not that he’s entirely bothered because it’s not as though he’s ever going to see her again. Besides, he really doesn’t want looking at her name tag to be mistaken for looking at her boobs. That’s not his thing, thank you very much.) they’ve got about an hour until they land, and Louis wishes that he’d slept for another 30 minutes because an hour is just  _too_ long. Too long to wallow in doubt and self pitty and basically feel awful about the fact that in a maximum of three hours, everyone will know that he ran. He ran away from his problems instead of facing them and  _that_ is what’s bugging him the most.

 

He knows he needs this, he’s just not sure if what he needs is the same as what is right.

 

* * *

 

It takes him a while to realise that there’s an hours time difference between England and San Sebastián. After glancing between the airport clock and his mobile for what feels like the twenty-ninth time (and who knows, it might have been.) it finally clicks and  _oh._ Now he feels stupid.

 

But nobody’s looking at him. Most are focussed on getting their luggage and getting the hell out of there, which sounds like a pretty good idea now that Louis’ thinking about it.

 

His case is easy to spot; the bright red completely standing out in the sea of blacks and navy. (Really, why does everyone have to be so  _boring?)_ And once he’s spotted it, he makes a beeline towards the conveyor belt, half tempted to lay down on it and see how far he can make it before somebody forces him off (or he falls. Either one.) but he’s pretty sure that’s just delirium talking and it would be a move not greatly appreciated by others, so he doesn’t. Instead, he simply grabs the handle and makes his way outside in search of a taxi.

 

It’s when he spots one, spotlessly white and shiny, that he realises he has no idea how to make conversation in Spanish. Sure, he learned a little when he was in year eight of school, but that was five years ago and now he can only just pronounce  _hola_ correctly. Fuck.

 

Still, he manages to recite the address of the villa well enough (he’s going to pretend that the driver didn’t roll his eyes and mutter  _extranjero_ under his breath- and hey, he remembers the Spanish term for foreigner!) and before too long he’s being driven through the city, catching glimpses of old buildings and busy markets and he’s  _really_ going to have to come exploring one day soon.

 

The sun’s hot, nearly  _too_ hot, but Louis’ trying not to complain. This is what he wants… a _change._ He’s glad that he changed into a loose shirt and some shorts though, he doesn’t think he could have taken it if he were still in his thick cotton pyjamas.

 

The heat doesn’t help with his tiredness though. To be honest, he thinks he’s been doing quite well considering he’s running on about three, maybe three and a half, hours of sleep and it wouldn’t be  _too_ bad if he had a quick power nap in the back of the car, (unless, of course, the driver- Fernando, was it?- is really a serial killer waiting for his next victim. A cabby killer… how very CSI.) but then they’re pulling up to a gate, stopping before Louis’ even registered that they’re here.

 

Oh.

 

They’re  _here._

 

Here as in here, here. As in the place that Louis’ going to be staying for the next goodness knows how long until his parents have stopped fighting and made peace with their split. Which, considering the conditions he left under, doesn’t look like it’ll be any time soon.

 

“That be sixteen euro. Sixteen.”

 

And, if Louis thinks the price is a little steep, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he pays with twenty, not bothering to count his change (if he did, he would notice that he’d only been given three euros and fifty cents) as he stares at the building in front of him.

 

The taxi drives off, leaving Louis with his thoughts, a small cloud of dust around him, and a missing fifty cents.

 

There’s no going back now.

 

Maybe it’s procrastination, but he doesn’t really care as he sends a quick text to his mum ( _Arrived. I’m safe. Love you. X)_ before turning the device off, stuffing it in his pocket as he begins the walk up the (surprisingly long- the photos did  _not_ do this place justice) driveway.

 

He knocks once, maybe twice but he’s too distracted trying to take in the garden to count, on the oak door, biting his lip anxiously as he waits for somebody to answer.

 

There’s silence for a while and Louis begins a mental steam of curses, because if that driver has taken him to the wrong place, he swears to god he’ll-

 

And then the door swings open, revealing a boy not too much younger than Louis (Fifteen? Sixteen?) rubbing sleep from his eyes (green, green eyes that- yeah. They’re sort of pretty.), curly hair sticking out in all directions, and a pair of Calvin Klein boxers hanging dangerously low in his hips.

 

And  _fuck._

 

This was going to be an interesting summer.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry's not sure what's more annoying. The fact that he's been woken up (again) at an ungodly hour, that the guy who committed said act is wearing _Toms_ for Christs sake, or the fact that he finds the fact that the guy's wearing Toms sort of adorable. He decides it's a mixture of all three (a twenty, twenty, sixty ratio really, but he doesn't dwell too deeply on that.) as he opens the door wider, moving to the side so that the stranger can step past the threshold.

 

“I'm Louis, by the way.” Louis says nervously, tugging his case along behind him. “What about you? You live here, right? Or something like that, I didn't read a lot of the information on the website, to be honest. Oh shit, you do speak English, right? Er... Habla usted Inglés? That's right, right? I mean-”

 

He's babbling, he knows he is. The thing is, he really can't seem to stop. There's something about the younger lad that sort of makes him nervous. ('Sort of' being an understatement. He's nervous as fuck and it doesn't help that Curly- he's decided that's what he's going to call him until he learns his real name- is looking at him with that small little half-smirk that makes him want to-)

 

“You talk too much.” Harry's voice interrupts his train of thought. Probably a good thing too, because he's sure what's running through his mind at that moment is not legal. “And your pronunciation is awful.” 

 

Louis grins at that, because at least he's going to be able to have a conversation with the kid during his stay here, and pushes the handle to his suitcase down. “Maybe you could teach me.” he suggests, his tone coming out a lot more flirtatious than he had originally intended. _Fuck._

 

Harry cocks his head to the side, eyeing the other boy- _Louis,_ he reminds himself- up and down. Overall, he's not too shabby looking. Sure, he's not as muscular as he had imagined and he's definitely not blonde, but his eyes are deliciously blue and he really, _really_ wants to get his hands on his bum (which he had gotten a pretty decent view of as Louis had walked in.)

 

He's definitely not complaining about the whole _'letting the spare room out'_ thing. 

 

“Maybe I could.” he offers, winking- something that Louis' absolutely not blushing over. Not at all.- before turning to shout down the corridor. “Mum! The guest is here!” 

 

It takes a second or two, (it feels like minutes, but that's probably because the two seem to have been caught up in a little staring contest somewhere between Harry's shouting- and Louis definitely isn't thinking about what _else_ he could get Curly to shout when they're alone- and Louis stuffing his hands into his pockets, swaying to and fro on the balls of his feet.) but soon a woman comes bustling along the hallway, a small checked apron tied around her waist and a wooden spoon in one hand.

 

“Hello, love. I'm Anne,” she hugs him, soft and dainty and smelling of flour. She reminds him of his own mother, and he takes comfort in the fact that there's at least something to remind him of home, even though home's the reason he's here in the first place.

 

“You must be exhausted, I hope Harry here hasn't been too troublesome.”

 

Louis shakes his head, smiling softly at the small huff of indignation that comes from Curly (Harry, he now knows. But he prefers Curly.) “Nah, he's been fine... nice lad.”

 

He bites his lip, not knowing if that last part was taking it a little too far. Really, he's had- what, a minute long conversation with them both? And he already feels comfortable around the two. It's unnerving how comfortable he feels. Which, yeah. Is a bit of an oxymoron, but he's never been too good at English, so whatever.

 

“Oh good.” Anne grins, wiping her hands on her apron. “I was just doing a spot of baking, completely lost track of time. Harry dear, would you mind showing Louis to his room? I'd do it myself, only-”

 

“Yeah.” Harry replies, straightening up a little- and now that he's not hunched over, Louis' got a pretty good idea of just how much taller than him the kid really is. (Which is a lot, by the way.)- and smiling at his mother. “I don't mind. Go back to... whatever it is you were doing. I can can handle him. _It._ I can handle _it_ from here. _._ ” 

 

Nobody seems to acknowledge the little slip up, though Louis' mind is going crazy with the ways that Harry could handle him, and Anne smiles, kisses Harry's cheek, and retreats back to the kitchen. (Though not before calling over her shoulder; “Oh, and Harry? Put some clothes on please, love.” to which Harry replies “I _have_ clothes on.”, but according to Anne, “Boxers aren't clothes.”) 

 

Harry sighs, raising his arms above his head and stretching ( _hello_ four nipples) before flashing a grin at Louis. (Also, dimples. Holy fuck.) “So if you want to follow me...”

 

He goes left, rather than the right which Anne had taken, leading Louis past several rooms which, according to Harry, he can be shown later. _(“Nothing great in them anyway.”_ he shurgs. _“Just the lounge and stuff. All the cool rooms are further down.”)_

 

They go up a flight of stairs, wide and free from toys and everything else that clutters up the ones at the Tomlinson household, so it's easier for Louis to lug his case up them. All _twenty_ of them.

 

“That's my sister's room.” Harry says, pointing to a closed door at the end of the hallway. “Gemma. She's probably still asleep, not that I blame her.” he smiles. “And she's not really here much of the time, so you wont have to put up with her a lot. Just at meal times, and whenever she brings her friends over to use the pool. Which isn't often, because we're close to the sea anyway.

 

“That one's my mum's.” he points, once they're a little further down. Louis' having a small _'Should I have taken my shoes off at the front door?'_ crisis inside his head, so all he can do is smile and nod, trying not to acknowledge how white and clean the carpet beneath their feet is.

 

They stop then, Louis almost colliding with Harry's naked torso due to the sudden halt. “What-”

 

“I have to say,” Harry interrupts, turning to face Louis with a gleam in his eye. “I was impressed that you didn't try to hit on her. My mum, I mean. Most people do.” 

 

Louis raises his eyebrows, smiling softly. “Mate, I can honestly say that your mum isn't my _type,_ if you know what I mean. She's got a few extra of what I don't like and none of what I do.”

 

It's only then that he realises, _shit._ He had no idea if Harry, or his family for that matter, were homophobic. Judging from the way that Curly had been flirting with him in the hallway, he had simply assumed not. But what if he had misinterpreted everything? What if he was just a sick, horny teenager who seriously needed his head checking? What if-

 

“Interesting.” Harry drawls out, slow and deep and Louis' certainly not swooning on the spot, thank you very much. 

 

“Oh?” he asks, voice a few octaves higher than it normally would be, but that's not really his fault. “Interesting, how?”

 

Harry grins, turning back around and continuing their walk along the corridor. “Just interesting.”

 

And that's all Louis' left with as he watches Harry's hips sway as he walks. Curly's lanky, but in a good way. Lots of smooth skin and a few traces of remaining baby fat (something which should put Louis right off, only for some reason, doesn't.) 

 

Tilting his head slightly, he takes a moment to appreciate the slight curve of the younger boy's arse. It's not as round as his own, and definitely not as firm, but it's still attractive enough. 

 

Yeah, he's so going to jail.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“And this-” Harry says, swinging the door open. “Is your room.”

 

Louis steps in, his case trailing behind him. It's a spacious room, not quite as large as Lottie and Felicite's back home, but definitely bigger than his own. He's got a double bed, clean white sheets crisp and cool to the touch as he trails his fingertips over them while walking slowly around. There's a balcony, too. And an en suite bathroom, so yeah. He thinks he's got himself a pretty good deal. 

 

“This is really nice.” he grins, sitting on the bed and bouncing lightly. “ _Really_ nice.”

 

“I'm glad it's up to your standards.” Harry laughs softly, leaning against the door frame. “I'll let you get settled in. Have a nap, or something. You look like you need it.”

 

“Thanks.” Louis rolls his eyes, but he knows that the comment is well justified, so he doesn't protest too much. Besides, he really could do with some more sleep. Just an hour or two...

 

Harry grins, pushing himself up so he's standing upright once more. “Well, it's what I'm going to do at least. If you need me, you know which room's mine. See you later, LouLou.” 

 

He tries to protest against the name, he really does, but the door's closing with a soft _click_ behind Curly, so there's not much more he can do about the matter. 

 

Falling back on the bed, Louis snuggles in to the pillows, letting the smell of fabric softener and Spanish air fill his senses as he drifts off.

 

And, in his sleep addled brain, he can't help but think that he might just take Harry up on that offer of finding his room later on.

 

You know, just for company.  


	3. Chapter 3

 

Louis awakes to a light, persistent pressure against his mouth; something warm and wet. He stretches, smiling when he feels a satisfying crack of bone.

“Harr-- fuck!” Sitting up, eyes wide, he pushes the offensive ball of fur away from him. The cat, which had previously been licking at his face, hissed, tail rising in indignation. “Shoo! Get out of here, go on! Stupid thing.”

Now, Louis doesn't hate animals. Far from it; he adores Ted, the family dog, with all his heart. He's a daft old thing, lazy and sleepy and as cuddly as they come. But when it comes to cats, they have a mutual loath-hate relationship. Something that's never really bothered him before now, but oh fuck he really hopes that it doesn't turn into a problem. Because a problem is the last thing he needs.

(He's really not thinking about how his brain had automatically gone to a certain curly haired teenager as he was so rudely awoken. That would definitely be problematic.)

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, surprisingly energetic for somebody recovering from jet lag and a (according to the little alarm clock he had previously failed to notice, sitting on the dresser,) two hour sleep, he pads over to the door, keeping a cautious eye on the gangly feline now perched on the windowsill.

The house is quiet, save for the faint noises of Anne pottering about somewhere downstairs, and Louis finds himself drawn to a room down the hall-- Harry's room. There are more photographs than he remembers seeing the first time he walked down here, but then again, he had been half asleep and had one eye fixed firmly on a rather nice butt in front of him. So, go figure.

There's one that grabs his attention, though. It's hidden behind one of a girl, (whom he assumes to be the other Styles sibling,) dressed up like a princess on the arm of a guy who looks like he could be a bit of a dick. She's attractive, looks a little like Harry, but it's not what made him look over. The picture that had caught his interest was tilted slightly away, a complete juxtaposition to the other frames which stood tall, in a neat line across the tabletop. Turning it towards him, Louis catches sight of the Styles family; all four of them.

He wonders briefly if Harry's in the same situation as him, if his father walked out on them the same way Mark had. The picture looks old and there's a small crack in the frame, but otherwise its a somewhat perfect little thing. And Louis' not jealous, he's really not, but he feels a little sad for the family he's so suddenly imposed himself on.

They had been happy in the picture, smiling.

He hasn't seen that same toothy grin on Harry yet.

(He's not bothering to think about why he even cares, or why every thought he's had in the last minute or so has been about the curly haired lad, because the answer's pretty obvious, isn't it? He's just being _nice._

Or something like that.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Knocking on Harry's door isn't an option, Louis soon discovers. The white painted wood stands wide open, giving a rather generous view of the room beyond it. It's... different to what he imagined. Definitely different. Louis hadn't had the chance to get a decent look in, the door had been only slightly ajar when he had gotten the grand tour of the place, but he had seen glimpses of grey and green. A strange combination, really. One that reminds him entirely too much of snakes and evil wizards, and some shit like that. (He's never really been an avid reader.)

“Hey you.” Harry smiles, setting his book down— so it looks like Curly _does_ like to read. Cool.-- and sitting up from where he had previously been sprawled over his bed. He's (unfortunately) dressed now; skinny jeans riding ridiculously low on his hips (if Louis hadn't seen them this morning, he'd be asking himself if the kid even _had_ hips,) the waistband of his boxers peeking out tantalisingly as his grey tee (seems to be a reoccurring colour here, Louis notes. There's possibly fifty shades in his room. Pun thoroughly intended. And oh, _nonono,_ brain do _not_ go _there_.) clings tightly to Harry's torso.

“Hey,” he squeaks, though he'll totally deny it if anybody ever calls him on it, hoping that it really wasn't obvious that he'd been checking Harry out. Not that he had been, of course. There's a difference between checking out, and observing, okay? “Your cat sort of molested my face.”

Harry grins, soft and sort of delicate. It's Louis favourite look on him, so far. “Yeah? Sorry about that. Dusty's a very affectionate creature.” after a pause, his eyes flicker from Louis' own, travelling down his body and _crap_ , Louis should have really changed before seeking Curly out, shouldn't he? “I take it it's fair to assume that you're not allergic, then?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, smiling. “No, not allergic. We just don't get on very well-- more of a dog person, myself.”

“I can see that.” Harry nods, biting his lip as though deep in thought. He seems dazed for a second, thinking something over. Louis would ask, only... only he'd have to be thinking about what Harry was thinking about in order to be curious about it, and he really isn't.

Harry seems to have reached a decision, though, as he's soon cracking a wide grin and Ch _rist,_ does this kid ever stop smiling?

“Wannna go somewhere?”

The question catches Louis off guard a little. Sure, he hadn't planned on staying in the house all that much, but he certainly hadn't planned on going of somewhere with his temporary house-mate either. “Er... yeah. Yeah, go on then. Sure.”

“Great!” Harry grins wider, something Louis hadn't thought was even possible, but, well. Clearly is; before proceeding to jump (and he's being deadly serious, Harry actually _jumps_ ) out of bed, landing with a soft thud on the carpet, and Louis' instantly envious. He'd probably fall over his own feet- or better yet, air- and end up face-planting like a complete moron if he tried that. “I want to show you around. San Sebastian can be a little intimidating your first time. There's a lot of noise.”

Louis wants to inform him that he's from Doncaster, has been on babysitting duties for four younger sisters since he was old enough to go into town on his own, and had won the title of “class joker” during his sixth form leavers assembly. Noise is no bother to him at all. Still, he actually wants to spend time with the kid, so he lets the comment slide, putting it aside for a later date.

“I'll just get changed, then.”

“Don't be too long.” Harry warns, sliding his feet into a pair of flip-flops. “Mum'll have breakfast ready in a minute.”

“Right.” Louis nods. He knows all too well the wrath of a mother kept waiting at the breakfast table, and he doesn't want to endure that on holiday, so he slips out of the room and back to his own, pulling at his shirt the moment the door closes behind him.

He considers passing on the shower front, because, hello; breakfast. But then he sniffs his armpits and yeah, he's not skipping a shower.

It's the quickest one of his life, he thinks. He's in and out again within five minutes, having washed his hair and scrubbed down faster than he can ever remember doing so. Even faster than that time Lottie had kept banging on the door, threatening to tell Mum about ' _That stash of magazines you keep hidden at the bottom of your wardrobe, and don't think I wont do it!_ If he doesn't get out of that bathroom _'right this minute.'_

(To be fair, he had been dawdling to deliberately annoy her. But carefully. He didn't want Jay knowing the _type_ of magazines he had stashed away and he had reminded himself to ask exactly _how_ Lottie knew what and where they were.)

After dressing in a pair of shorts and a plain white tee, he decides to follow Harry's lead on the flip-flop thing. He's packed one pair, so that's good. He might have to invest in more, though, if the weather keeps up like this. Hot, humid and heavy.

Exactly eleven minutes after leaving Harry's room, Louis finds himself seated at the Styles' kitchen table, a plate of French toast and a glass of orange juice in front of him. As it turns out, Anne is a fantastic cook. Well, he sort of figured she would be, since she's spent 90% of her time in the Kitchen since he's gotten here. Although, it is only 10:00am.

He meets Gemma, too. That is, of course, if you class catching a glimpse of a girl around his height, (maybe a few centimetres taller, but he's not going to dwell on that) with pin-straight hair and a cheeky smile, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge before heading out the back door, 'meeting', then they totally met.

“Don't mind her, love.” Anne smiles. “That's my eldest, Gemma. She's always off out these days, so expect quick exists like that a lot more often. She'll come home when she's hungry and can't afford something from the bar.”

Louis nods, surprised at how calm she was being about it. He knew his mother would crucify Felicite or Lottie if they ever went out without telling her, or even saying good morning.

“That's... nice.” he says, though it comes out more like a question than anything else.

Harry snorts a laugh over his coffee. (How he can drink a hot drink when the weather is like this, Louis will never know. He figures it's a native thing that he hasn't adapted yet.)

He hears rather than sees Anne lightly whack Harry over the lack of the head chastisingly, and it's nice. It's family. It's a sense of home and belonging and wow, his chest feels uncomfortably tight right now.

“So are you boys headed out today?” Anne asks over a cup of tea, and yeah. Definitely a native thing.

“Showing Louis around the hotspots.” Harry shrugs. “You know, where to buy his drugs and booze.”

Anne's eyebrows raise and Louis splutters, juice dribbling a little down his chin. _What the actual fuck, Harry._ But Harry's just sitting there, a small curve to his lips and a hint of colour to his cheeks, completely calm. “I don't do drugs, Mrs Styles, I swear!”

“Firstly,” Anne giggles a little. “It's Miss Cox, but as I've already insisted, call me Anne. Secondly, I'm very glad to hear that. And thirdly, Harry has a very dry sense of humour. You'll get used to it.”

“Hey!”

Louis grins.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sea washes over Louis' toes; refreshing, but not cold. It's the perfect balance, and as he breathes in fresh salt air he can't help but think this is the best he's felt in a long, long time. Warm air caresses his face, blows his hair around and he's so tempted to raise his arms in a titanic-esque pose.

(It might feel like flying.)

But he doesn't. Harry's a few feet away from him, skimming pebbles like it's not a fucking amazing talent that he should be damn well proud of because hell, Louis' only ever seen that be done in films.

“It's beautiful here.” Louis says, almost a whisper, but that's alright. They're alone, they don't have to shout.

See, the Styles' were lucky with their property. There's a pathway they can take, about a five minute walk away from the villa, that curls around until they're directly about half a mile from the house; a small section of the beach blocked away from the rest by rocky formations that go too far out to try to swim around and nobody attempts to climb across because it's high as fuck. Still, the location means that technically, this section comes with the villa. Ergo, the Styles' have their own private beach.

Louis knew there was a reason he'd come here.

“I know.” Harry says, and Louis thinks he's smiling but he's not too sure, considering he can't really see his face. The kid is always smiling, so it's not a far fetched assumption. “I come here a lot. I'm usually alone, but... I wanted you to see it.”

“Yeah?” Louis smiles, because that's actually quite flattering. Like, a lot.

“Yeah.” Harry repeats, skimming one last stone before wiping his hands on his jeans. “Come over here.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, a little confused, but decides to just roll with it. The worst thing Harry could do would be to hit him, or try to drown him or something. And oh god, what if his previous fears had been right? What if they were just a bunch of axe wielding murderers who sought out young boys to kill?

“Don't look so cautious.” Harry laughed. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Well then.

Louis lets slender fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling him towards the rocks that separate them from the rest of the beach.

“I figured out about six months ago,” Harry begins, placing a foot cautiously on a rather jagged looking overhang. “that there's actually a semi-safe way up here. We can't get right to the top, obviously, but... the view is pretty amazing from that ledge up near the middle.”

And Louis not _scared_ per say. He just doesn't have an affinity for heights, is all. And that ledge near the middle? That's at least fifteen feet off the ground. “Are you, um, sure this is a good idea?”

“You'll love it, trust me.” Harry grins over his shoulder, climbing upwards. Louis follows, careful to step _exactly_ where Harry does. He's pretty sure he's _not_ going to love it, but--

But let's face it, he's going soft.

“If I die, you're paying for my funeral.” he grumbles under his breath, a steady mantra of ' _Don't look down, down you fucking look down, Tommo.'_ in his head.

Harry laughs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

So, okay. Harry was totally right and Louis was completely wrong. The view is _stunning,_ and although he feels sweaty and gross from the climb, plus the heat that he's certainly not used to after spending the majority of his life in Yorkshire, it's completely worth it.

“This is one hotspot that you don't get to tell my mum about.” Harry says, sitting down on the ledge. Louis follows, letting their legs swing side by side, skin occasionally brushing and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Promise.” he whispers. “It's our little secret.”

(Another blow of warm air passes them and this time, it does feel flying.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, con-crit is welcomed with open arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I updated. The world must be ending.

 

 

The sun beats down on them; hot, almost unbearably so. The town is busy and Louis' sure he's learned more Spanish from walking along side-streets and dodging sketchy looking traders than he ever did in school. Well, if you can count _'El bastardo!'_ and _'Gilipollas_ _'_ as proper Spanish. Harry laughs, dragging him along by the hand (and doesn't _that_ feel nice) to a small stall, shaded by tall trees and the back wall of a bric-a-brac tourist shop.

 

“You'll love this.” he promises, and Louis' not even sure what 'this' is, but he's going to take Harry's word for it because it's not like the lad has steered him wrong so far.

 

Harry says something to the stall owner, something Louis really doesn't understand because it contains too many variations of the word 'los',then digs in his pocket until he fishes out a few Euros and hands them over. Louis would protest, only he didn't actually bring his wallet out with them (silly mistake, really) and besides, it doesn't look like Harry's close to being broke any time soon, given the fact he has a bloody villa as a home.

 

“Here,” Harry grins, passing Louis a glass that has a purple-y coloured liquid in it. Now Louis' not an idiot, he knows girly looking drinks are often the worst and will nine times out of ten lead to a hangover great enough to give a twenty consecutive shots of tequila a run for its money (not that he's speaking from experience or anything), so he raises an eyebrow, looking at Harry warily.

 

“Come on, it's not bad, I swear.” and then Harry's taking a sip. Or rather, Harry's downing the whole glass like it's nothing but a small tumbler (which, to be fair, it's not _that_ big. But you know what they say, even arsenic comes in small packages), his adams apple bobbing as he swallows.

 

Everything's suddenly just a little bit hotter than it was a second ago and Louis grabs the hem of his shirt with one hand, the other still holding the mystery glass, pulling the fabric away from his chest and fanning it against his skin for a second or two. He lets out a breath, licking his lips before thinking _'what the hell'_ and taking a swig from his glass. It's surprisingly not that bad. It doesn't sting his throat as it goes down and it tastes faintly of coconut and mint, something he's never really had before, but okay. There's a first time for everything, and all that. Still, there's an underlying trace of alcohol and Louis shakes his head, leaning forwards to whisper to the taller lad despite the possibility that nobody around them even knew English.

 

“Naughty, Harry. Are you even old enough to drink?”

 

Harry giggles (actually fucking giggles, and that shouldn't be as hot as it is. Louis shouldn't be thinking about the most subtle way to adjust his shorts because of it.) “We're not in England, babe. Laws are just _guidelines_ here.”

 

And, okay. Guidelines. Louis can live with that.

 

 

**.**

 

 

Louis really, really can't live with that. It's just gone midday, his shirt is sticking to his back due to sweat and it's most definitely not a pretty sight, but Harry doesn't stop, dragging him along from beaches to parks, to cliff edges and café’s, and sure, Louis' enjoying himself, but that doesn't change the fact that he's come to terms with the idea of being royally screwed (and not in the good way) due to crushing on Curly. (Yes, he's bloody _crushing._ Like a thirteen year old girl, like bloody _Lottie._ Oh god, he's totally Lottie before she and Martin first got together, fuck his life.)

 

But, really, it's not like anybody could blame him. Look at the kid, all lanky limbs and wicked green eyes, how can anybody not be throwing themselves at him? Which, actually-

“So, do you have a girlfriend?” Louis blurts out, kicking at the dirt road with the sole of his shoe. He can't look Harry in the eye, scared that if he does, the kid is going to just _know_. Not that he's being very subtle about it at that moment, but whatever. He's allowed moments of irrationalism, okay?

 

Harry smiles, not his usual bright and cheery one with dimples and shiny eyes, but almost shy, guarded. “Can you keep a secret?” he asks, and Louis pauses for a moment. _Can_ he? It'd be all too easy to say yes, to have Harry confide in him with whatever it is he so clearly wants to, but would he be telling the truth?

 

“I don't know.” he replies honestly, sparing a Harry a glance.

 

Harry shrugs at this, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and continues to walk. Louis thinks that's it, that he's messed everything up, but after a minute or two Harry's talking again, steady and slow.

 

“I had a girlfriend in year seven. Like, she was my first one, so I thought it was normal to be a bit awkward and stuff, but then my mate Liam, he got with this girl a few weeks later, and he was so in love with her, it was ridiculous. They're still together now, yeah? Liam and Danielle, that's her name, and like, because of them, I sort of realised that I wasn't supposed to feel awkward when I was in a relationship. That a relationship is supposed to make you feel good, so. I dumped her. Or rather, it was a sort of mutual break-up thing.” he chuckles, shaking his head softly.

 

“Whatever. Anyway... it took me a while, like a year after I was sort of flirting with this one girl, 'cause it's fun. Flirting, that is. And I just, it didn't feel right then, either. So...” he swallows, hands shoved into his pocket and Louis wants to just hug him, to tell him not to be so damn nervous because it's not like he's going to judge him or anything, even if is breaking his heart a little to hear about all these girls Harry's been with, albeit unsuccessfully.

 

“Then I got talking to this lad, Derek. And he was kind of cool, you know? And we had a lot in common, and he was funny and shit like that, and... so we were talking and I realised- I realised...” Harry breathed in deeply, eyes closing as he worried his bottom lip before shaking his head, smiling sadly. “I realised I'm _gay_ , Louis.” he whispers, opening his eyes. “I'm gay. I like boys. I like their firm chests and big hands, stubble and muscle, dicks and abs, that kind of thing. I just-- I fancy guys. And you're the first person I've ever said that to.”

 

“Harry...” Louis says, soft and sympathetic. He wants to hug the other boy, so he does, because nobody should ever be scared to admit something about themselves that they have absolutely no control over. “It's fine, that's perfectly _fine._ ”

 

Harry sniffs, burying his face in the crook of Louis' neck, and it's a bit of an awkward angle; Louis' finding that he has to rise on his tiptoes a little because the kid is taller than he originally thought, but it's nice. Warm. (He could blame that little factor on the Spanish heat, but they both know it's not.)

 

“My mum doesn't even know.” he mumbles, voice muffled through the thin fabric of Louis' shirt, but Louis hears him nonetheless.

 

“That's alright, too. If you're not ready to let people know, then you're not ready. Don't feel bad about it, because it's not _them_ who has to face judgement-- and I wish I could tell you that everybody's going to be accepting, but I really can't, and I'm so sorry for that, love.”

 

“ S'fine.” Harry shakes his head, nose rubbing along the stretch of skin covering Louis' neck and shoulder. He smells of soap and coconut body wash, faint traces of Joop aftershave and sweat clinging to his skin, but Harry breathes in in a way he hopes is subtle, eyes closing as he takes it all in. “Not your fault people are twats.”

 

Louis chuckles a little at that, one hand falling to rest on the small of his back, fingers spanning. “But your mum's not, right? She's going to love you, no matter what.”

 

He feels Harry shrug at that, so he let's the topic drop. He doesn't know Anne as well as Harry does, but he'd bet his beat up Ford that there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing, that would make her turn away from him.

 

They're silent for a minute, their stomachs becoming sticky with sweat from the heat and from being pressed so closely together. It's not so crowded, here, and it's nice to be somewhat alone, if only for a little while. “You good?” Louis asks, almost whispered as he lets his grip on Harry slack a bit.

 

“Ngh,” Harry grunts in protest, a soft whine coming from the back of his throat as he tightens his arms around Louis and pulls the other boy even closer, if that were possible. “Stay. Jus' for a minute longer.”

 

And Louis does. They remain like that for more than a minute, Louis loses track of how long after 82 seconds and a soft sigh on Harry's part, but he's not going to start complaining any time soon.

 

 

.

 

 

They make it back to the Villa by ten to seven, the sun setting and casting beautiful reds, oranges and purples across the sky. Their stomachs are grumbling in protest, the both of them having stopped only for a hotdog a few hours ago. (Louis had been surprised that they sold such English... American?... foods here, but Harry had assured him that San Sebastian was very accommodating in its cuisine.)

 

“I've really had fun today, Harry.” Louis smiles, hands shoved into his pockets as he casts the other boy a smile. “So thanks for that. I wasn't expecting to make a friend here, but... yeah. Thanks.”

 

Harry grins, pulling one hand from his own pocket so he can throw his arm around Louis' shoulders, squeezing. “I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.” he says, a glint in his eyes. “Because I plan on dragging you out tomorrow, too. And the day after that, and the day after that...”

 

Louis laughs, eyes crinkling at the sides as he throws his head back, and Harry can't help but admire his throat, the way his adam's apple bobs slightly. “Oh, I look forward to it.” he assures, taking the steps up to the front door two at a time. It means that Harry's arm drops to his side, now, but he doesn't mind as long as it means he gets to see the way Louis' shorts pull just right across his backside.

 

“You coming?” Louis calls. He's at the door now, and Harry rolls his eyes at himself at having zoned out. At least he wasn't caught staring (he hopes.)

 

And there's a comeback on the tip of his tongue, a “I will be later.” followed by a “thinking of you”, but he stays quiet, a dirty smirk gracing his lips instead. When he gets to the front door, Louis doesn't move back to let him through. They're stood together, barely five inches between their chests, and the air is thick. Harry swallows, licking his lips. “I'm glad you liked today.” he repeats, voice husky, and before he can think any better of it he leans forwards, lips grazing Louis' cheek and staying there for a moment longer than necessary. Louis, bless his heart, looks absolutely stunned. Pleased, but stunned, and Harry leaves him like that as he retreats back into the house, a smile on his face.

 

 

.

 

 

(Louis' cheek burns during dinner, tingling. It tingles as he reaches for the mashed potatoes and tingles as his hand brushes against Harry's while he picks up his glass of water. If he touches it that night, fingertips caressing the spot gently as he lies awake on top of clean sheets with the window open, nobody knows but him.)


	5. Chapter 5

 

Louis wakes up on the second day to that damn cat sharing his pillow and he decides, around a mouthful of hair, that he really needs to learn it's name.

 

“Geddoff, Hobbit” he groans, and he figures that that'd do for now.

 

Hobbit simply raises her head, fixing Louis with an unimpressed look – her tail swishing leisurely behind her – as she raises a paw and licks.

 

Louis sighs, kicking off the covers that have now pooled around his waist, leaving him in just his boxers. The clock he had moved to his night stand reads 9:07am, and he's not sure if that's classed as lazy or not, so he stretches and gets up, feet padding across the warm floor, heated from the early sun, and into the bathroom.

 

He takes his time in the shower, setting the temperature a little lower than usual as he works the Clementine soap into his skin. Louis' not been able to unwind like this in a long time, having to be up to see the twins to nursery in the morning and making sure Mark and Jay don't completely kill each other during the day, so now he relaxes against the spray of the water, letting his hands travel lightly over his navel, the slight swell of his stomach, his hardening nipples. He remembers the night before; remembers how Harry's lips had felt against his cheek – soft and warm, and he wonders if they'd be the same wrapped around his cock.

 

Louis' dick twitches in interest at that, the thought of the teenager on his knees, looking up at Louis through thick lashes and watering eyes.

 

He lets out a huff of breath, nimble fingers curling around himself as he leans against the tiled wall, the cool refreshing. He can imagine Harry to be enthusiastic, making up for lack of experience with eager bobs of his head, chocking himself around Louis as he tries to take him down all the way, and Louis has to suck his bottom lip into his mouth to stop from moaning.

 

He'd be ashamed, once upon a time, at the thought of beating off over some lad he barely knows in a stranger's shower, but now he can't bring himself to care. He might even be ashamed later, remembering the way he had held Harry in his arms as though he were made of porcelain and in need of protection, but that wasn't 'now'. Now, Louis' blood is pounding in his ears, the steady mantra of the falling water muted as he flicks his wrist, thumbing the head of his cock as he bucks into his fist.

 

It's kind of obvious now – the fact that Louis wants Harry. If there's one thing he's learned over the years, it's that libido doesn't lie. And his body has shown enough interest in that curly haired fucker to know that he's going to have a serious case of blue balls over the next few weeks if he doesn't sort his game out. He knows that Harry likes guys, the only question now is whether or not Harry likes _him_. And it's kind of ridiculous, thinking like this. He's known the kid for a _day_ , but he'll justify that with the fact that Rose and Jack were apparently soul mates after knowing each other for just over three days, so. Whatever.

 

Louis throws his head back, working his hand faster as his skull connects with the wall, a dull throb of pain ignored for the pleasure that's causing his thighs to shake and his balls to tighten. He's close, ever so close and if he doesn't come soon then he's scared his dick is going to explode. His head falls to the side, then, neck straining as he bites at his shoulder, tasting wet skin and oranges. It's with that that he releases, breath getting trapped in his throat as his mouth falls open in a silent cry, white streaking over his hand and the tiles.

 

He stays there for a minute or two, supported by the wall, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls heavily, breathing becoming a little easier by the second as he waits for the feeling to return to his legs. When it does, he pushes himself into a standing position, shakily setting about to wash his hair with whatever's available. (He may have learned a little Spanish on his day out, but that doesn't mean he's fluent enough to read the label of the blue bottle in front of him. He's just going to have to trust that it's not some form of acid.)

 

By 9:45 Louis' dressed and dried, any incriminating stains in the shower washed away, and it's almost as though it never happened. Almost. The faint traces of that utterly boneless feeling are enough to remind him that it had.

 

After grabbing his phone, Louis heads downstairs. There's clatter from the kitchen and he's relieved to see Harry and Gemma sitting at the table, the latter in a pair of cotton pyjama shorts and a tank top, hair piled messily atop of her head as the tentatively sips from a glass of orange juice. Louis knows that look – it means one hell of a hangover and he doesn't envy her in the slightest. He thinks briefly that if she ever got the branch out of her arse, they could get along quite well. Still, it's only a brief thought. Because Harry's smiling at him, a hundred watt thing that puts the sun outside to shame, and Louis' half contemplating how the hell that's possible, when Anne addresses him from behind the kitchen island.

 

“Louis, honey, good morning!” One day he'll figure out how anybody can be so perky before midday, but that might be the kind of research you need a physics degree for, so. “Are you hungry? I'm making brunch. Sort of. Breakfast for Gemma, the poor lamb's only just climbed out of bed -” Louis' sure he heard a soft groan at that, and if Harry's smirk is anything to go by then his suspicions are correct. “and lunch for Harry. Kid's never full, bless him.” And Harry rolls his eyes at that, gaze fixed on Louis who can't help but smile back.

 

“Sure, Anne. Thanks.” He says, followed by an offer to lend a hand, but Anne simply directs him to the table, telling him to sit down and enjoy his damn holiday.

 

Louis can't really argue with that.

 

“Hey.” Harry whispers, shifting his chair so that there's room for Louis to slide into the one beside him. He's being subtle, Louis will give him that, but there's a soft blush to his cheeks that gives him an air of innocence that he's never really seen on the kid before. It makes him feel slightly guilty for his thoughts this morning. “You got plans for today?”

 

Louis shakes his head, sliding his phone into his pocket and watching the way that Harry's gaze follows his hands, lingering a for a second too long.

 

“Good. Well, there's this _thing_ later. One of Gemma's friends, um. She's doing this thing...”

 

Gemma sighs at this, raising her head from where it had been resting on her arms to fix them with an unimpressed look. “Just say it, bumble.” And it's an unusual nickname, one Louis wants to ask the origin of, but then Gemma's gaze turns to him and he isn't given a chance to.

 

Her eyes were similar to Harry's, maybe a little more hazel than green, but still undeniably pretty. He wonders how anybody could say no to either of them if they pulled the puppy dog trick on them.

 

“Khara's parents are out. She has the house to herself which means she's throwing a party – open invite. There'll be booze, girls, weed if you know the right people, and Harry wants to take you.”

 

Well then. “Er -” he spared a glance in Anne's direction, glad to see that she appeared to have not heard them. She may not be lecturing Gemma on her lifestyle, but he has no doubt that she'd step in when drugs were added to the equation. Harry, too, since Louis' not entirely sure of his exact age. He's no older than sixteen, though, and he knows for sure that his mum would have had a fit if Louis were to be seen at that kind of scene at that age. “Alright then.”

 

Harry smiles, Gemma has a knowing look on her face, and Louis can't shake the feeling in his gut that he's going to regret saying yes.

 

 

-

 

 

After breakfast – brunch – whatever it was, (“ _segundo desayuno”_ Anne had called it, and that's another phrase for Louis to note down on a post-it) Louis goes out into the garden. There's a spot he finds, a few yards away from the pool that's sheltered by a palm tree (a real life fucking palm tree, and that's something you don't see every day in England), and he settles there – back against the bark as he fishes out his mobile, checking his messages for the first time since landing in San Sebastian.

 

He has eighteen texts and three missed calls.

 

 

> **Mum (received 09:11am, July 12 2013):** Are you safe? X
> 
> **Mum (received 09:15am, July 12 2013):** I love you and I'm sorry X
> 
> **Mum (received 09:22am, July 12 2013):** Please let me know you're alright X
> 
> **Dad (received 09:31am, July 12 2013):** You shouldn't have left like that. Your mother is worried sick and what about the girls?
> 
> **Mum (received 09:31am, July 12 2013):** I'm sorry we didn't see how this was affecting you. Please let me know you're okay X
> 
> **Dad: (received 09:40am, July 12 2013):** Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Are you ok?
> 
> **Lottie: (received 2:03pm, July 12 2013):** And you didn't take me on holiday with you because?Bring me back a stick of rock at least, dumbass. Xx
> 
> **Lottie (received 02:28pm, July 12 2013):** Daisy and Phoebe say they want a sugar dummy and doughnuts. Lots of doughnuts. Xx
> 
> **Felicite (received 02:31pm, July 12 2013):** Candy floss for me please x
> 
> **Mum (received 04:18pm, July 12 2013):** Hope you are having a good time X
> 
> **StanLee :P (received 05:20pm, July 12 2013):** oi lou whats this about u pissing off? Bastard. Should have took me with you
> 
> **Hannah (received 05:22pm, July 12 2013):** Answer your damn phone x
> 
> **Hannah (received 05:34pm, July 12 2013):** Or not. Text back whenever. Let us know you're okay x
> 
> **Mum (received 06:02pm, July 12 2013):** Love you, Boo x
> 
> **StanLee :P (received 07:22pm, July 12 2013):** mate sarah asked me out. Fucking ace
> 
> **Mum (received 10:41pm, July 12 2013):** Goodnight sweetheart x
> 
> **Dad (received 11:12pm, July 12 2013):** Please contact soon Louis
> 
> **Mum (received 08:12, July 13 2013):** Morning boo. Are you okay? X

 

 

 

**Three (3) missed calls:**

 

> **(2)**   **Mum – see details  
>   
> ** **(1) Hannah – see details**

 

 

 

Louis smiles softly, flipping through the messages. It's nice, knowing he was missed. He also feels a little like shit knowing he made everyone worry, but he came on holiday to get away from the stress so he doesn't dwell on that for too long. Instead he opens up a new message as quickly ass possible, typing.

 

 

> **To: Mum, Dad**
> 
> I'm safe and happy. Sorry for worrying you, just had to get out. Spur of the moment thing. I'll text you every now and then. Will be away for the rest of the month. Please don't worry. X
> 
>  
> 
> **To: Hannah**
> 
> Sorry. Away for rest of month. Going to have some me time, not really going to be in touch. I'm fine though.
> 
>  
> 
> **To: Stan**
> 
> Get in there mate. :)

 

He sends them, then, and deletes everything apart from his sisters orders, because he knows that if he forgets then there'll be hell to pay when he gets home. Never get in between a girl and her sweet tooth -- Louis had learned that the hard way when he was fifteen and naïve enough to believe that stealing your sisters kitkat would _not_ result in you getting bitten. Foolish mistake, really.

 

But he can breathe a little easier now. He knows the police aren't going to turn up on Anne's doorstep because his parents have filed a missing persons, and he knows that nobody really holds it against him. If he happens to lean back against the tree, eyes closed as he soaks up the Spanish sun and drift a little into sleep, then that's entirely his own business. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Gemma's car, and since I have no idea how to do hyperlinks on this thing, you're stuck with the long link. Sorry about that. http://www.carsguide.com.au/images/uploads/BMW_1_Series_silver_convertible001.jpg
> 
> And if you like visual aid, this is what Harry's wearing. http://25.media.tumblr.com/275de2ea810f71d58d01f057db80c369/tumblr_mhr5ll5iKK1qekfnso5_250.png

 

 

It doesn't take Louis long (five minutes of rifling through the suitcase he still hasn't unpacked, and three staring at himself in the mirror, frustrated), to realise that he really, really hasn't packed for a party. At home he would have gone for some tight jeans and a button up dress shirt, but he's severely lacking the latter.

 

“I'm fucked, I’m so fucking screwed and you can shut up, too” Louis groans, catching sight of Hobbit through the mirror, lounging on his pillow with her tail swishing idly behind her. She tilts her head to the side as though judging him, before letting it fall onto her paws. Louis sighs. “Just don't malt all over the sheets.”

 

He digs out a pair of dark wash jeans, the tightest he's packed, and after pulling them on and turning to view how they cling to his arse and thighs, he deems them appropriate. The top, however, is a mystery. It's warm enough for him to stand before his scattered clothes shirtless and not be chilled, but it's not as though he could get away with dressing (or rather, not) that way in front of Gemma and Harry's friends. Not that he would anyway. Sure, his arms are impressive even to him, but he's self conscious enough to want to hide the slight stomach he's gained since leaving college and not having to walk between buildings.

 

A quick glance at the clock tells Louis he has ten minutes before he has to be in the foyer to meet the others, and he curses again. His mind drifts slightly, wondering what Harry'd be wearing. Would he go for jeans or shorts, a shirt or a tank, and Louis' lips quirk slightly until he realises that he doesn't have _time_ to have his mind wonder.

 

Grabbing his can on Lynx, he sprays himself quickly before snatching a powder blue polo from his 'maybe' pile, pulling it on. It'd have to do.

 

Louis attempts to do something with his hair. Quiff it, possibly, but the fine strands aren't co-operating as he runs his fingers through them, trying to find the right way for it to sit. It's as though the universe has decided it's solar “let's screw with Louis Tomlinson” day, and he's glad that Dusty (he'd asked Harry her name earlier, back when he'd been awoken by the kid splashing him from the pool. Tuns out Harry really likes to swim, does it every day if he can. Turns out Louis does too, the last time he'd done so being never, not that Harry needed to know that. All he needed to know was ' _yes, I'd love to swim with you and make a total fool out of myself for not being able to do more than half a lap and what is my life, honestly'_ condensed down into a ''sure, it'd be cool to have company”.) is the only one present to hear his annoyed growl as he drops his hands, hair falling back over his forehead limply.

 

There's a knock at his door, then, and Louis turns just in time to see a mop of curly hair poking around the wooden frame. “You nearly ready, Lou?”

 

Harry slips into the room, leaving the door ajar as he walks over to stoke Dusty's head.

And seeing Harry there, clad in dark knee length shorts and a navy v-neck, suddenly turns the theme of the day from 'Let's fuck Louis over' to 'please bend me over'. Louis swallows and it's as though Hobbit knows, regarding at him with those beady little eyes. Bitch.

 

“Sure, Curly.” Curly. Fucking _Curly,_ and Louis starts to regret that nickname because he might as well be called Mr. State the fucking obvious. Seriously, how had nobody punched him by now? Why was there never a bolt of lightening from the heavens to shock him into re-thinking his every life decision? He'd even take a little green bug on his shoulder to be his conscience if it meant he never had to flush scarlet in front of Harry again.

 

Harry doesn't seem to be bothered, though. He smiles softly, biting his bottom lip so that it whitens a little around the pressure as his eyes scan over Louis' form, pausing a little as he cocks his head to the side, taking in his hips, his thighs. “You definitely look it.”

 

Louis coughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to cool down his blush. “Thanks. You, um, too. You too.”

 

Harry smirks at that, extending an arm and flicking his wrist to point his hand towards the door. “Shall we?”

 

If Louis wasn't playing it cool, he would have blushed. And he was totally playing it cool, thoroughly, utterly, and completely not at all.

 

“We shall.”

 

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Louis walks towards the door, detouring a little so that he's side by side with Harry. Harry's arm drops, then, the palm of his outstretched hand settling nicely on the small of Louis' back, and Louis takes a moment to wish he was a girl so that he could cake his face with foundation or whatever it is girls use to stop that damn blush. (And in all honestly, he'd make a fantastic girl. He's thinking a D cup, what with his bum and all – that's how it translates, right? Arse to boobs? Either way, he's had enough time beating off on his own to know how to give an ace hand job if the occasion arose.)

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

“How hot a girl I'd make.” Louis grins, turning his head to add in a little wink.

 

Harry smiles, rolling his eyes a little before stopping them, turning so he's face to face with Louis and let's his gaze rake down the body in front of him for the second time that afternoon. “Nah,” he seems to conclude, eyes flicking back up to meet Louis. “I much prefer you as a guy.”

 

Harry moves past Louis at that, heading towards the door before pausing, turning slightly. “Although, who knows, I might become a little flexible if you weren't.”

 

And then Louis' alone in the room, stuck to the spot before his phone buzzes with the alarm he'd set to make sure he'd be ready in time. He nearly trips over himself following Harry down the stairs.

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

It turns out that Khara is a lot richer than either Gemma or Harry had made her out to be. They had taken Gemma's car to the villa, (if it can even be called that with it's three stories and south wall made entirely of glass), the top down so that the breeze swept Harry's hair to the wrong side, much to the kids annoyance.

 

When they were a few minutes away, the sun already setting, casting an orange glow over the horizon, the thud of bass music could be heard over the calls of seagulls and the ocean washing the shore. It was unreal, for Louis. He'd been to a total of four house parties in his life, two of which ended in having to do a runner due to the police turning up on the front porch after a report of noise pollution, yet here he was – in freaking S _pain_ of all places – going to a party with people e hardly knew. His mother would have a heart attack if she knew. (Which she wouldn't. Ever.)

 

“Right,” Gemma started, manoeuvring the driveway until she was parked outside the double doored garage. “You know the drill. Harry, only find me to take you home before twelve if it's a life or death situation. Louis,” she turns in her seat, fixing him with a look that he's only ever seen mums use on their naughty children. “Make sure Harry doesn't end up in a life or death situation.”

 

He nods, fumbling with the seatbelt. “Yes Ma'am.”

 

Gemma grins, not waiting for the others to be ready before she climbs out of the car. “Great! Well, I’ll see you later then, boys.”

 

Louis watches her walk towards the front door, greeted by a girl of around 21 with chestnut straight hair, and opens his mouth, spluttering a little. “Isn't she – I mean, I know this isn't England, but she – she's not going to lock the car?”

 

Harry laughs, undoing his own belt before opening the door. “Nah. She Khara's friend, everybody knows that if you want to be anything around here, you don't mess with anybody Khara cares about.”

 

“So this Khara, she's like the Regina George of San Sebastian?”

 

Harry pauses, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he nods. “But scarier.”

 

“Well damn.”

 

“Gemma's like Cady.”

 

“Bit of a fan, Curly?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

Louis sticks beside Harry for the duration of the party. It's just the two of them for the first hour, suspicious looking red plastic cups are being passed around from whoever's mixing some foul tasting concoction in the kitchen, and Louis' certain he's a little more than buzzed after downing two. Whilst working through his third, Harry darts away from him, bright eyed and cheeks flushed due to alcohol, only to come back with two other boys, a tall lad that looked around Harry's age and another that looked about thirteen.

 

“Louis!” Harry grins, draping an arm over his shoulders. Harry, apparently, is a touchy drunk. “These are my friends! Friends, this is Louis. Louis' staying with us, I told him a secret.” he giggles, burying his face in the crook of Louis' neck, and if Louis were a little more sober he'd have cursed the heavens for not watching how much Harry had drunk. As it turns out, he _isn't_ sober, and he can't be held responsible for the way he curls into Harry's body, resting the sides of their heads together.

 

The first kid smiles, he looks like some kind of Spanish god with his unnaturally perfect face and if Louis wasn't currently a little in love with the lad stood next to him, he'd definitely be calling dibs on this one. “I'm Zayn. That, there, is Niall. He's shy.”

 

“Fuck off, mate.” Niall, apparently, slurs. “Like hell I am.”

 

Harry laughs again, reaching up to whisper into Louis' ear, lips brushing the shell with every word. “He's only shy when he's sober. Get a few drinks down him and he's fucking great.”

 

“Alright, Louis?” Niall asks, elongating the 'ou' so it comes out a little like _Looooouis._ “Harry said to make sure we say Louis and not Lewis. He's a cute little bastard when he's got a crush, isn't he?”

 

“Don't be a twat, mate.” Zayn says, nudging Niall with his elbow. It's a little too forceful, either that or Niall's way too drunk to withstand even the slightest of touches (and Louis' willing to bet that it's the latter), and he falls, crashing into a couple practically dry humping on the make-shift dance floor.

 

Louis can't help but laugh, and like that the tension is broken, Niall's previous comment forgotten.

 

Harry thinks he definitely needs another drink.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

Another drink turns out to be five, and with a sly smile and a few doe eyes, Louis drinks each and every time Harry brings him another over. They're both pleasantly drunk, Louis subconsciously knows that they're both going to have a hangover from hell in the morning, and he sincerely hopes Anne won't kick him out for ruining her baby's innocence (although, from the way Harry's dancing up against him, he can tell this kid is _far_ from innocent.)

Zayn and Niall left them to it at around drink number three, saying they had a curfew and needed to find their ride home – their neighbour, Liam, who had an on again, off again thing with Khara. This week it happened to be on, and they knew if they didn't find him before people started going back to the bedrooms, they never would.

 

Harry thinks that maybe he should take Louis to one of the spare rooms, push him back onto the sheets and blow his brain out through his dick, but there's too many people here to do that discreetly and he may be drunk, but he's not an idiot. People talk.

 

“I wanna go home.” he whispers to Louis, letting a finger curl into the elder's belt loop.

 

Louis nods. “Do you want me to find Gemma - “

 

“ _No,_ ” Harry says, a little too quickly, and pulls Louis just that much more closer. “I want to go home. With you.”

 

Louis' eyes widen a little as he finally, god-damn _finally_ , understands. “Yeah, yeah alright. Is it far to walk, or...”

 

Harry shakes his head. “Twenty minutes, but I've got a few Euros. Can get a taxi.... oi, Jay, tell my sister i'm going, yeah?” he shouts the last part, directed at a lad making his way through the crowds of people. Jay looks up, waving a little at Harry before giving him a thumbs up. “That's that sorted.”

 

It doesn't take them long to get outside, the sky darker than Louis' ever seen it, but illuminated with thousands upon thousands of stars, and it's beautiful. So, so beautiful and Louis makes a note to look out tomorrow night when the bright dots don't seem to blur together.

 

Harry calls the cab, it takes five minutes for it to get here and another ten to drop them off outside the villa, but Harry's impatient enough to not even bother to count the money, dumping a handful of change into the guy's hand, and Louis' sure he's given him a tip big enough to get a Venti at Starbucks. He doesn't have much time to spare thought over that, though, because as soon as the money’s out of Harry's hand, he entwines his fingers with Louis' and gives him an impatient tug, leading him out of the car and up the pathway.

 

They sneak in through the back, Louis stubbing his toe on a plant pot and Harry shushing him loudly through giggles, worried about waking his mother. They make it upstairs with little incident, and before long they're falling into Harry's room, the door slamming shut behind them. The noise makes them freeze, all too aware that Anne's in the room not ten feet away. After a pregnant silence, they both let out a breath of relief, before Harry flashes Louis a grin. “Hi.”

 

“Hey.” Louis smiles, suddenly so very aware of the tenting in his jeans, and why they're here. “Listen, I don't want you to feel like you're being pressured -”

 

Louis' cut off by a pair of soft lips pressing against his own, hesitant at first, but soon growing in confidence when, instead of pushing him away, Louis wraps an arm around Harry's waist, one hand resting firmly on his back whilst the other raises to tangle fingers in his hair. Harry smiles, biting softly on Louis' lower lip as he places his hands on his hips, guiding him towards the bed against the far wall. He's never really appreciated the fact he had the smallest room in the house until now; if it had taken much longer for Louis' knees to bump against the mattress, causing him to sit, Harry thinks he might have gone insane.

 

Louis thinks he could get used to this, having to lean up to kiss somebody. He briefly remembers that he's never actually asked Harry's age, kid could be jail bait for all he knows, but the worry is gone as soon as Harry's lips are, replaced with a soft whimper and a want for more. Harry smiles at that, kissing Louis' nose before bunching up the hem of Louis' tee in his hands, pulling it up and over his head before moving on to his own.

 

It doesn't take them long, a minute or two maximum, before they're naked – Louis breathing heavily, laid out beneath Harry as Harry reaches into the bedside cabinet to take out a bottle of lube, dropping it onto the mattress beside Louis head.

 

Louis wants to ask if he's sure, if he's ever done this before or if they need to go slow, but he has no words. Harry's kneeling over him, uncapping the bottle and coating two fingers generously as his hair falls into his eyes, lips red and swollen from kisses and gentle nibbles, and Louis remembers the stars. Harry's a little like a star, shining brightly yet so unappreciated, and Louis wants to take him and show him off to the world, tell them all how wonderful he is, but at the same time he wants to keep him, here, in this room where it's just the two of them, no interference from the outside world and nobody to judge them but God and each other.

 

Harry's hand slips out of view, and Louis readies himself for the solid probing of gentle fingers, but it never comes. He opens his eyes (he hadn't even noticed when they'd closed), and looks up at Harry. His pupils are blown, wide and hungry, his mouth parted as short gasps leave his lips, and it's then that Louis notices the rocking of his hips, the way he's fucking himself back onto his own fingers.

 

“Oh, fuck.” Louis breathes, the sight so hot it makes his dick _hurt_ , and he has to spread his hands over Harry's thighs to stop from touching himself. Harry whines, clearly growing impatient, and shuffles forwards, thighs bracketing Louis' sides as he removes his fingers, wiping them hastily on the bedsheets before taking hold of Louis' cock and guiding it to his hole.

 

It takes everything within Louis not to buck upwards at the touch, biting his lip to keep himself still as Harry sinks down onto him, the tight heat surrounding his prick further and further until eventually, the top of Harry's thighs are pressed against Louis' hips and for the first time in a long time, Louis feels nothing but good.

 

Harry breaths out shakily, hands coming to rest on Louis' shoulders as his eyes flutter open, searching for Louis'. Louis smiles, his own hands rubbing gently over Harry's thighs, curving over his hips until he reaches his bum, fingers digging in gently.

 

“Wow,” Harry whispers, tongue darting out to moisten his lips, and Louis wants to kiss him, wants to catch that tongue in his own mouth and never let it go, but he doesn't want to risk moving until Harry's ready for him. “Okay,” Harry nods. “Okay, I’m good.”

 

He rolls his hips experimentally, and Louis surges up to capture his lips with his own, tongue licking in to the wet heat of his mouth. Harry moans at that, the noise muffled by the kiss, and he brings a hand up to curve behind Louis' neck as he rocks down, breaking the kiss to let out a sharp gasp.

 

Louis takes charge after that, bringing his hands once again to Harry's hips as he lifts the boy, letting him sink down again at the same time as he thrusts up. A noise gets caught in Harry's throat, his head tipping back to expose the expanse of his neck, unblemished skin just waiting to be ruined.

 

“Jesus, Harry...” Louis says, little more than a whisper but it still sounds too loud to his own ears. He leans up, lips pressing to Harry's collar bones as his tongue darts out, licking over the the thin sheen of sweat that's started to gather there.

 

“O-oh, _oh,”_

 

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, Louis falls back onto the pillows as his hands continue to roam over Harry's body, tweaking his nipples, rubbing his sides, paying attention to everywhere but his leaking cock. He knows it's difficult, knows it takes a lot of practise to get to that point, but he wants to see if Harry can come from just this – just Louis inside of him.

 

Harry ducks his head, taking a section of skin just below Louis' collar bones between his lips, sucking a purple into the salty gold. Louis' so distracted that he doesn't notice that Harry's got a hand wrapped around himself, pumping quickly and in time to the way Louis' dick is stroking over his prostate. He doesn't notice until Harry's mouth leaves his body, teeth biting into the pink flesh after chocking out a broken “ _Oh,_ fuck _”_ , staining Louis' stomach with streaks of white.

 

It's that sight, seeing Harry come undone above him due to feeling so _good_ , good because of Louis, that does it for Louis, too. He cries out softly, a noise quickly stifled by Harry's lips (because, as he'll be reminded later, they're not alone in the house) as he releases inside of him, Harry working them both through orgasm as he slowly rolls his hips, sliding into his own fist with every other movement.

 

Harry stills once Louis hisses, the beginnings of overstimulisation becoming too much for him, before he carefully lifts himself off of him, reaching over to pull a tissue free from the box before he dabs at the mess on Louis' chest, too worn out to care about thoroughness. When it's no longer startlingly obvious that someone had come on Louis, Harry scrunches the tissue and throws it towards the direction of the bin, not bothering to check if it had landed correctly. Instead, he shuffles upwards, kissing Louis' lips once more before he lays down, curling into the other boys side.

 

“G'night, Lou.”

 

Louis opens his mouth to respond, to say something similar, but Harry's breathing has already evened out.

 

“Goodnight, Harry.”


End file.
